I know that the minute I ask "Are Mondays good for people or do you even care about any pretense at A Schedule" Muse is going to find some way to go sulk in a corner for three weeks. Which might not be the worst thing, considering that coming up quite shortly is one of the scenes that's had me going "...Srsly? Ew, SRSLY?" since Muse initially pitched this project to me...

***Jason is of the opinion that there is nothing in our entire association that's more disturbing than watching me shave. "Seriously, man, that's just weird and creepy," he says from his post in the doorway of the bath, visibly amused at how little regard I'm displaying for the direction of the mirror above the sink.

I pause to give him as arch a look as one could be expected to from above a comical mask of lather. "You have a better suggestion?"

"Nah, I think if you let it go you'd look like you were trying to get away with something. Hell, I'd card you."

It's a fair point. I can blend into a crowd of sixth-formers easily enough as it is without the suggestion that I'm trying it on at growing a moustache to make myself look older. I go back to my blind efforts. "Why aren't you getting yourself together, thought you had plans tonight?"

He's not so much a wolf that he won't mate out of season, but by and large it's an effort for him to be arsed about it, except when it isn't, which women find confusing. As Sandra puts it, it's a little jarring when most of the time a guy would rather cook you dinner and then all of a sudden he's hitting on the furniture. Jason's relationships tend not to survive the transition, in either direction. "Bad luck," I say, because it seems that something is required here, even if it's far from the first time.

Jason shrugs again. "She's probably right that I could be doing something for it, like, medically or something, but, I mean, yeah, I care when the world is in technicolor, but I have other things going on in my life, you know? ...Sometimes I really want to drop out of society and go live in the woods," he admits all in a rush.

"I can see you lasting five minutes in any forest that didn't have a spice aisle," I say. He grins at me wanly.

"I guess. I can still recognize intellectually how desperately you need to get laid, though."

"Yeah, thanks for that, mate."

Third expansive shrug, this one sliding into the setup for a look of sly humour; "All I'm saying is, man gets that happy from biting the head off a chicken, that man clearly needs to get out more, y'know?"

We've already been well over how unfair the experience had been, particularly to the rooster; or as Jason had acknowledged that next morning in a rare moment of self-reflection, yeah, that was kind of a dick move, wasn't it. "I did not bite its head off."

He's undeterred. "Pretty damn heavy-metal, even so --"

In another moment I'm going to have to stop for fear of losing any ability to keep a straight face. "Why are you still here, seriously --"

"Because you keep missing the same spot," Jason says, indicating the left side of the jaw. I give him two soapy fingers and he retreats, chuckling.

OoOOoo you put that angsty sexy hiraeth tag on this, and I had to click.

"An unexpressable longing", no single translation into one English word, "desire" being rather weaker than the Welsh intention of that word. Damn I love the bits of Welsh I can manage, yeah. What was your post about....*g*